


I’m Not Alone (‘Cause You’re Here With Me)

by deduceforme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:12:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deduceforme/pseuds/deduceforme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is faced with the unexpected passing of his sister, and Sherlock stands with him as he is forced to come to terms with death and the loneliness that follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to note this will eventually be Johnlock (in case you missed the tag), and in terms of timeline, this story takes place about a year after Sherlock’s return (post-Reichenbach).

“Harry’s dead.” 

Odd, that. John’s sure that isn’t a proper response to ‘hello’, but that’s what the voice had said. He had to have heard wrong. There was a time he had come to expect a call like this, but Harry’s been clean for years now, and he told the voice as much. It’s insistent and crying. No, not it, he knows the voice. Clara. Clara’s crying. But it can’t be Clara because if it’s Clara, then-

“She’s dead, John. Hit and run. Dead on arrival, they said.” 

He can barely hear her now, reality hitting him like a ton of bricks.

“Funeral,” she sobs. She’s crying harder. She’s asking him why he isn’t. He wonders how she expects him to cry when he can hardly breathe. 

None of this makes any sense. John had awoken that morning to dawn spilling bright through the windows of 221B. He had padded downstairs and offered a greeting to Sherlock (that went ignored) who was texting furiously (on John’s phone), and had chosen to ignore his friend’s blatant lack of respect for his belongings in order to get at the tea. He was never in the mood for scolding until after his morning cuppa.

He flicked on the kettle and stood waiting at the counter. He turned his head sharply at the sound of his name being called from somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s perch on his chair. John’s hands shot up instinctively, just in time to catch his phone as it came flying at him. A look halfway between amused and annoyed flashed across his face, and Sherlock adopted a self-satisfied smirk in response. It took John just seconds longer to realize the phone in his hands was vibrating, waiting to be answered. He quickly hit the button and held it to his ear.

 _John, you’re not bailing on dinner again_ , is what he’d been expecting. They’d been having similar conversations for weeks. _Bring that mad flatmate of yours if you’d like_ , she was supposed to say. _I convinced Harry to go down to the shops with me last night just for you, so you’re coming_.

Yes, he’d much rather be having that conversation just now.

John stares at the wall in front of him and barely registers that Clara’s shouting at him. “Why aren’t you answering me?” she cries, and maybe it’s lucky that he still can’t manage a sound because he doesn’t think he’d be able to keep from screaming that, _this isn’t the morning I’m meant to have. Why won’t you tell me there’s been some horrible mistake?_

The line cuts out not seconds later and John feels all the tension in his arm go slack. He lets his hand fall away from his ear, and it sways uselessly at his side, mobile threatening to fall through his trembling fingers. There are things to be done, but he can’t move. He needs to move. His sister has just died. He needs to tell- who is there to tell? Their parents passed years ago. He feels so unbearably alone.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and long, warm fingers gently sliding the phone from his own. He looks over to see Sherlock staring back at him, eyes wide, and expression careful. 'Thank god,' John thinks. He’s not so alone after all. He moves to take a step closer, needing the warmth of another body (life) that very moment, but as soon as he shifts his weight to take a step, he lets out a sharp cry as pain shoots through his right leg. What’s left of his strength (will) gives, and he’s caught round the shoulders by two strong, slender arms.

Sherlock leads John steadily to the sofa, and helps him sit. He darts away in the direction of the kitchen and returns just minutes later, shoving a warm cup of tea into John’s hands before seating himself on the table directly in front of him. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t touch. He just waits.

John’s mind is fuzzy as he stares down into the warm cup in his hands. He knows he should say something, but he sips his tea instead. It’s just how he likes it (of course it is). Just one sip, and he’s starting to feel human again. He remembers Sherlock (how does he keep forgetting?) and looks up. He expects Sherlock to be impatient with him, but all he reads on the other man’s face is genuine concern. It’s radiating off him in waves. John breathes it in.

“Thank you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. Sherlock’s brow furrows and he looks… miserable. Not the right thing to say, then.

Sherlock leans forward, and raises a hand to hover uncertainly above John’s still visibly trembling left hand. He waits for John’s shock addled mind to register his intentions and watches closely for any signs screaming _not good_ before covering John’s hand with his own. He sits quietly for a moment, eyes alight and earnest, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

The gears in John’s mind started turning again thanks to the grounding presence of Sherlock’s hand on his. He turns his palm upward to allow himself to get a grip of his own, and holds on tight. 'This is whom he has to tell,' he thinks, 'He has to tell Sherlock.' John takes one final steadying breath, and opens his mouth to speak. The words (awful words) get caught in his throat, and all that makes it past his lips is a choked sob. His vision blurs, but he keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock, pleading. 

_Don’t make me say it._

Sherlock seems to understand and nods. “The first part is simple, you know it already,” he begins, gesturing to the phone where it lay on the dining table. “I had your mobile in my hands when the ringing began so I know from the caller ID the call came in from Clara. Clara calls and has you visibly pained in seconds- it’s about Harriet, then. Not back on the drugs, no. You’d be disappointed, frustrated, not- _this_ ,” he continues, grasping tighter to John’s shaking hand as if to clarify his unusual vagueness. 

“The tremor in your hand, the pain in your leg, both indicators of an extreme emotional response made worse by the unexpectedness of the call. Obvious physical and emotional distress combined with the presence of shock symptoms means grieving. Grieving for Harriet. Your sister Harriet has died,” he concludes, for once not seeming pleased with himself in the slightest. In fact, it could be argued that he looked nearer to disgusted.

“Brilliant,” John rasps, “Amazing. Fantastic.” 

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, not knowing what the proper response should be. He is visibly touched by the praise, but there have been tears falling from John’s eyes since he had begun. John continues crying even after it’s through, but there’s a fragile smile on his lips and he’s honestly grateful. He got to tell someone, just not with words. Thankfully, wonderfully, he doesn’t always need words with Sherlock.

“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock offers, and there’s no doubt in John’s mind as to his sincerity.

They sit silently together for a while longer until John’s able to regain his composure. As his awareness returns, he looks down and sees their hands still clasped tightly to one another where they rest on his knee, and he can feel his tremor has slowly abated. At the moment, the pain in his leg is bearable, but he deems it best not to try his luck too soon. He then takes another look over at Sherlock who seems surprisingly content to let John set his own pace for once. He doesn’t push, or prompt, he just watches. John decides to use this rare opportunity to talk over his next steps. Sherlock has always seemed to find it helpful to talk to John when he has trouble working through something, and if that’s good enough for Sherlock Holmes, it’s good enough for John Watson.

“So, er,” he coughs, unused to his own voice, “I guess I won’t be available for the next few days.”

“To prepare for the funeral, obviously,” Sherlock says calmly.

“Right, so if Lestrade happens to find you a nice murder victim, I won’t be around to play doctor for you.”

“You are a doctor, not just simply playing at one like those idiots that work with Scotland Yard,” Sherlock smirks, “and of course we won’t be taking any cases this week.”

“We?” John blinks.

Sherlock fixes him with an exasperated look and says, “Yes, John. We. We will not be taking any cases this week.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to do that. Look, I know- this,” John starts, gesturing to his damaged (pathetic) self, “isn’t really your area. I won’t be cross with you at all if you don’t want to get involved. I appreciate you being here for me, and I really can’t ask anything more of you.”

“I know you won’t ask because I know you, John. We are friends,” he asserts, calm and honest. “You won’t ask, and you shouldn’t have to. Harriet was there for you when I-“ Sherlock falters, “When I wasn’t. She got clean to take care of you. I owe you both at least this much. I want to help you with this, if you’ll have me.”

John stares dumbly at his friend (best friend), blinking hard to rid himself of the tears that had begun pooling in his eyes, and breaks into a wide smile despite it all. “I’d always rather have you then not,” he states, confidently.

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to smile, just the barest upturn of his lips, and it’s one of the most honest John’s ever seen. It's one of those private smiles reserved just for him. Sherlock releases his hold on John’s now completely steady hand, and gives it one final pat as he says, “Me too, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting this chapter up! I actually have a bunch more written, but it actually worked better if I lumped the rest of it in with the next chapter so keep an eye out for that soon. Thanks so much for reading.

Sherlock was up and pacing the length of the sitting room, typing furiously on his phone. ‘Just tying up a few loose ends,’ he’d said as he’d drawn himself up and away from where John remained seated on the sofa. John found himself wishing that he’d stayed

The day had only just begun and John was tired, and being in full view of Sherlock in a frenzied work mode wasn’t doing him any good. He felt weak and worn and the absence of Sherlock’s presence left him reeling. He’s no stranger to loss, but here he was again, overwhelmed and unprepared, and it frustrated him. He worried that even if he were able to dig up every last ounce of strength left in him, this time it wouldn’t be enough for what the day ahead of him would require. He didn’t just have himself to support, and he felt his will sag under the weight of it all as he stares down into the cup of tea that had gone cold in his hands.

John looks up to see Sherlock watching him, his pacing slows and he pockets his mobile. His eyes are open and searching, and as if reading an unspoken plea for closeness on John’s features, he reclaims his seat on the coffee table in front of John. He has his mobile out again, but now he’s much calmer in his actions

Sherlock’s warmth passes through the narrow space between them, and John feels his body lean into it unconsciously. He doesn’t fight it. He feels lighter and more grounded, having Sherlock near; it reassures him, and he knows as he stares back into those intense icy-blues that he can be Clara’s strength because Sherlock and his unwavering resilience will be his.

They sit silently in each other’s company while John downs the remainder of the tea in his hands. Sherlock perks up a bit when he hears the chime of the text alert noise from John’s phone, and before John can even think to get to his feet, Sherlock is bounding across the room and snatching the phone up from where it sits on the kitchen table. The device is in John’s hands in seconds

“Sherlock, I could’ve-“ John starts, warming further at his friend’s attention.

“Of course you could have,” Sherlock cuts in with a wave of his hand. His eyes are bright, and there's an amused smirk forming on his lips. Sherlock’s own phone sounds in his hands, and his gaze shifts to stare down his nose at the new message.

John shakes his head and smiles at the completely put out look his friend has adopted. ‘Must be Mycroft,’ he thinks, hopes of further delaying the rest of the day with a bit of playful teasing dashed. His suspicions are confirmed as he turns his attention instead to the message in his own hands that reads-

**My sincerest condolences, Dr. Watson.**

**Do let me know if there’s anything else you need.**

**-M**

“Mycroft’s meddling,” Sherlock murmurs mostly to himself. He’s moving again, this time to the windows and John’s surprised to see his eyes soften slightly. “Get the door, John. It’s for you,” he says, eyes fixed out the window and on the street below.

John raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. He eases himself off of the sofa and onto his feet, and for the first time in years, contemplates the need of his cane as his leg buckles slightly under the pain that shoots through it. He curses under his breath, but quickly recovers, standing straighter when he rights himself

‘ _I’m grieving- I’m not a bloody invalid_ ,’ he scolds internally.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and strides right past the cane where it lay forgotten against the door frame. His determination fuels him, drives him forward, and he misses the small, proud smile that creeps across Sherlock’s features.

John reaches the front door, and his mind’s fixation on the throbbing pain in his leg is quickly overridden by a clenching in his chest when he opens the door to reveal a teary-eyed Clara. She all but falls into his arms as soon as she lays eyes on him, and he clings tightly to her shivering frame. He’s suddenly, painfully reminded of the awful way he’d left her to go have a meltdown. ‘Like a bloody child,’ he spits to himself. He holds his sister-in-law even tighter, whispering apologies and quiet comforts in her ear, and he isn’t sure if it’s for her benefit or his.

When her wracking sobs fade into quiet sniffling, he gently ushers her into the building with a hand on the small of her back. He looks past her and spots a black sedan pulling away from the curb as he shuts door behind them. He takes out his phone and sends a swift thank you to Mycroft, and finds, not for the first time, that he’s grateful to have been under big brother’s watchful eye. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he wraps an arm around Clara’s shoulders to steady her (and himself) as they make their way up the stairs.

The smell of freshly brewed tea wafts past John just as they reach the top of the stairs and he focuses on it as he fights to keep on his feet. He spots two steaming cups sitting on the table in front of the sofa, and then Sherlock’s there, standing tall in front of them. John watches his demeanor change as he takes in Clara’s still shaking form and John’s noticeable discomfort. The tension in Sherlock’s shoulders relaxes, and he nods to John as he seems to come to some sort of decision. He reaches over to place a steadying hand at Clara’s elbow, and John steps back a bit, letting his arm fall away from her shoulders.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock offers, and leads her to the sofa and her waiting tea.

John takes the opportunity to limp into the bathroom for a moment to collect himself. The suddenness of Clara’s appearance brought reality and guilt slamming into him full force and he feels sick. He bends awkwardly, favoring his leg, and clutches the rim of the toilet as his stomach threatens to empty its contents.

After a few wretched (gasping, heaving) minutes on his knees, he finally feels it safe to straighten up, and he startles as he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He doesn't remember crying, but his cheeks are streaked with recently fallen tears, and he hardly recognizes the weary-eyed man staring back at him. He splashes water on his face and breathes a moment, determined to bring out the best in him, the soldier in him, for Clara. He owes it to her and to Harry. He had been selfish and hadn't found the time for them while his sister was alive, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give Clara every second he has while she needs him now.

He sets the best brave-face he can muster firmly in place, steps out into the sitting room, and is met with two pairs of concerned, questioning eyes that he pointedly ignores in favor of taking the vacant seat between them. Sherlock turns in his seat towards John, leg coming to rest right up against his, and neither of them move.

John picks up the cup from the table, letting the warmth give him the courage to speak. “I’m so sorry, Clara,” he begins, eyes pleading, “for what I did to you earlier- for everything.”

She reaches over and takes one of John’s hands into her own and hushes him. “It’s all right, John,” she soothes, “I thought I’d be able to handle it, but I guess I-“ Her voice drops and she’s trembling.

“So you’ve been to see her, then? In the morgue?” John asks, gently.

“Yes,” she whispers, “that’s where Mr. Holmes had me picked up. I’d just been to see her when I called- I was frantic. They’d asked if I wanted one of the doctors to inform you, but I didn’t want you to have to hear it from some stranger like I did.”

Clara’s hesitation wins out and silence stretches between them. She shifts in the seat next to him, and sips her tea slowly. John wants to know more, he needs to know more, but he won’t prod. He can see her working herself up to something, so he waits.

“She was on her way home-" her voice breaks, eyes glistening with tears threatening to fall. “She was just blocks away, John, can you believe that? She was so close, and yet I didn’t hear about it until it was too late. The last image I have of my wife is of her lying dead on a slab.”

Clara’s weeping silently, and John holds her hand tighter in his. He sets his tea down on the table to free up his other hand and begins rubbing soothing circles along her back. He feels his nerve waver, and he instinctively presses more firmly against Sherlock's side. His heart aches for her. Nothing makes a death more real than seeing the body for yourself. He knows that better than most. He’s suddenly fighting back images of Sherlock’s blood on the pavement and his broken, lifeless body. An image like that- it’s beyond doubt. It’s final

-At least it is when the dead in question isn’t a mad consulting detective.

John’s eyes flick over his shoulder to Sherlock who’s still watching the both of them, and he feels _so lucky_. Sherlock came back to him, but Harry was lost to them for good and he feels the loss of her so deeply. He’ll do anything he can to help Clara and to honor the memory of his sister.

“God, Clara I-" John hesitates, “what do you need me to do?”

"What you need us to do?” Sherlock amends.

Clara’s tears have mostly faded and she seems to shrink back a bit as she makes up her mind on how to begin. “I’d like you both to come with me to meet with the funeral director,” she says, timidly.

“Of course we will,” John confirms, wondering a bit at why such a simple request would cause her such unease.

She looks torn, and her grip on John's hand tightens. “John, I- I’ve decided to go with the same funeral director you worked with when Sherlock- when he-” she stammers, eyes wide and apologetic. “God this is too much, isn’t it? Mr. Holmes suggested it, and I didn’t know what else to do so-“ her voice faltering, and expression intent.

John’s heart is in his throat, and he can feel all eyes on him again. He straightens up in his seat, hardens his resolve, and steadies himself to speak. “It’s-” he breathes, “a bit not good, to be honest.” His confidence grows as he finds his voice sounding much steadier than he feels. “-But I’ll be fine. Arthur’s a good bloke.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes keen.

“Of course,” he insists, “Harry’s my sister. She deserves the best.” John does his best to smile though his insides are churning at the idea of allowing anything from that experience overlap with this one. He had actually been considering this option himself, but he worried that it would disrupt his mind’s ability to keep the two separate.

Clara nods, but she isn’t looking at him anymore. Her eyes focus on Sherlock over John’s shoulder and she prompts, “Sherlock?”

He nods, but the nonchalance seems forced. “He did do an acceptable job. I’m sure he’s capable of pulling together something suitable for Harriet as well,” came Sherlock’s deep voice in response. 

John blinks a few times and he does a mental scan of the memories he has of Sherlock’s funeral. If the bastard had been there, surely John would have noticed. “You were at your funeral?” he asks.

“Of course not. Moriarty’s men were at my funeral. I couldn’t risk being seen,” Sherlock explains, eyes contrite. “Mycroft showed me pictures afterward.”

John has questions and Sherlock can sense it. John thought he’d learned everything about Sherlock’s ‘time away’ as they’d come to call it, but Sherlock hadn't ever mentioned having any knowledge of his funeral. He turns to look over his shoulder at Sherlock who seems to have shut down a bit. It’s nothing like the wall he’d put up when he’d first come back, but John worries at it all the same. It took a lot of time (and shouting and admittedly, crying) to get him to open up back then. John wants to push, but he knows it isn’t the time. 

He’s desperate for a distraction, and Sherlock has always been such a lovely one.

“Right,” John says, noticing they've allowed the silence to stretch a bit too long, “I assume Mycroft’s gone and set an appointment for us.”

“Yes,” Clara confirms, and glances at her watch. “We’ve got about a couple hours until we’re expected.”

“How about we have some lunch, and then we can all head over together,” John suggests. He knows he and Sherlock haven’t had anything more than tea all morning, and he’s reasonably certain Clara’s in much the same state. Sherlock and Clara both nod in agreement and John continues, “Sherlock, would you mind running down to grab some takeaway from the sandwich shop?”

“I’m sure you’re quite capable of handling that yourself,” Sherlock insists as he stands. He gives John’s shoulder a light pat before turning to Clara and offering her his hand. She shoots John a questioning glance, as she’s pulled upright and led over to the dining table where Sherlock begins fussing with and gesturing to the various experiments sprawled across it.

John’s eyes narrow at Sherlock’s back and he's about to voice his disapproval at the sudden, uncooperative attitude when Sherlock shoots him a look over his shoulder and tuts, “Honestly, you’re in mourning, John, you’re not an invalid.”

John beams.


End file.
